


A Car, A Torch, A Death

by Sonderlost



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26528050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonderlost/pseuds/Sonderlost
Summary: Post-3x14: "On My Way." Angsty at first (there WAS a car crash), but it’ll get progressively happier (and Faberryier) as we go on.
Relationships: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray
Comments: 5
Kudos: 64





	A Car, A Torch, A Death

**Author's Note:**

> Publishing this because if I don't, I'm going to keep going back and making tiny changes.

Santana is the first to know.

She and Quinn can’t stand each other, sometimes, sure. But if anything happened to Santana, Quinn would drop everything to be there for her. Santana knows that about Quinn, just like Quinn knows she’d do the same. She’d always, always be there for Quinn, in a way that no one—not even Quinn’s mother—would. So Quinn set her as her emergency contact, just in case something happened.

And something happened.

The bridal party chatters softly to each other while Rachel insists on waiting for Quinn when Santana‘s phone rings. Her brow furrows as she steps away to take the call.

Ice grips her stomach while the voice on the other end says words like _car accident, in surgery, touch-and-go, critical._

 _You were her first emergency contact_ , the voice says.

Santana thanks the voice and moves the phone away from her ear. She stares at the number glowing on the screen for just a moment before the person on the other end hangs up. She takes a deep breath, composes herself before she returns to the group. Rachel’s nerves were frayed enough. Santana could pull it together. She had to.

“B,” Santana says, and Brittany’s head flits up, a smile rising, naturally and unbidden, to her lips until she takes in the expression on Santana’s face.

It’s blank.

“B,” Santana says again. “Mercedes. Puck.” Her voice wavers at his name, though she was certain no one else could hear. Their curious eyes find her. Santana jerks her head to the doorway, pleading without words that they’ll understand to follow her.

Because something happened.

* * *

On the phone, after the hospital staffer said all those terrible words like _head-on collision_ and _major blood loss_ , the voice had asked Santana if she knew a Mercedes Jones and/or a Noah Puckerman. They were Quinn’s second and third emergency contacts, and the knowledge makes Santana laugh into the phone, a harsh and bitter bark. Because of _course_ Quinn would put the three of them before anyone in her actual family.

Things were never perfect between Quinn and Mercedes, but Mercedes was kind and she was gentle and no one else gave her the credit she deserved for all she did.

Santana knew without Quinn saying a word that Quinn would be nothing—would be dead—without Mercedes. It only made sense that while Quinn was on death’s door, she would want Mercedes by her side.

And Puck, of course, Puck. Quinn insisted that Santana and Brittany both memorize Puck’s phone number in case of an emergency. She’d trained them like they were at cheer practice to recite his phone number. Quinn and Puck never loved each other like they were supposed to, but they love in their own way, and they love Beth more than anything.

* * *

The hospital calls Frannie last. Frannie calls Quinn’s mother. Quinn’s mother calls Quinn’s father, who sends the call to voicemail.

* * *

Rachel notices when the four of them shuffle out of the room, Santana leading them away. Rachel eyes them standing just outside the doorway, Santana talking to them in hushed tones. It confuses her. Scares her. It reminds her of all the times she stood on the outside, looking in.

But Finn is there, and everyone is there for her, for her wedding. To Finn. Who’s there.

And Quinn’s not.

Rachel tries to connect the dots. Tries to sort out why Santana called for those three people (and why not her), what binds them to each other (and not to her).

And by the time Rachel’s figured it out, Puck is bolting outside to bring his truck around, Mercedes is weeping into Santana’s arms, and Brittany is walking back towards the group, standing in front of them, saying what Rachel already knew but desperately wished weren’t true.

“It’s Quinn.”

* * *

Brittany knows what it’s like to lose someone you love, to feel them slip from between your fingers.

Brittany knows how people like Santana and Quinn hate to show emotion. They tamp it down, suffocate it, let it chew them up and spit them out. They hate to break, even when they’re alone, because breaking means _shattering_ , means falling apart, means fracturing and splintering and _aching_. It means putting yourself back together again, and neither of them have really learned how to do that yet.

Brittany knows how people like Puck and her go numb at first, and they hold themselves together just fine until something small sneaks into the cracks of their heart and fractures it, and they burst into pieces. They’re brave when they need to be, when people need them to be, and everyone knows how strong they are, but they still need to prove it to someone. Maybe to themselves.  
  
When they finally fall apart, it’s soft and quiet, but everyone who relied on them to be brave before is there now to catch them.

And Brittany knows how people like Rachel fall apart, heart on their sleeve, head in their hands. It’s loud and it’s ugly and it’s broken, and Brittany fleetingly wishes everyone were more like that, because who can be brave and strong while Quinn is dying?

She watches Rachel collapse, hears her wail, feels the grief rip through her body and, like the vibrations of a tuning fork, Brittany lets it resonate through her.

(A little crack in her heart.)

The glee club kids ask her frantic questions, and she answers with everything Santana had just told them. _She’s alive, but it’s not good. Car accident. Hospital. Surgery._ Everyone starts collecting their things, arranging for carpools to the hospital, moving too slowly, too slowly, but Puck has already pulled up, and Santana and Mercedes are walking over to lead Brittany to the car with them.

Brittany turns to consider Rachel’s crumpled form, the tuning fork of grief.

Brittany pulls Rachel to her feet and leads her, still wailing, to Puck’s driver side door.

Because Brittany knows what it’s like to feel someone you love slip away.

* * *

Mercedes sits in the front of Puck’s car. Santana and Brittany are intertwined in the back. Rachel tucks herself against the door, next to them but so alone.

While everyone scrambled to their cars to get to the hospital, Rachel had stepped up to Puck in the driver’s seat, eyes swimming with tears, and only said, “Please.”

Puck had nodded once, his jaw tense.

Rachel slid into the car with the other people who love Quinn so much it hurts.

* * *

Finn takes a different car.

* * *

Puck’s grip on the steering wheel is turning his knuckles white, the tendons in his arm straining against the confines of his skin. No one speaks.

Puck doesn’t notice it until Mercedes puts her hand on his arm, but he’s well over the speed limit. Puck chances a glance at her face, and it says more than he can bear.

_You have to be safe. She wouldn’t want us getting hurt over her. Beth needs you._

Puck offers her a half-smile as a thank you for looking out for him, for everyone, because that’s just what Mercedes does.

Puck slows his speed until he stops hearing Quinn’s voice scolding him in his head.

* * *

The hospital doesn’t let them see Quinn. The administrator takes one long look at their ragtag bunch—teenagers in wedding attire, all petrified, all clamoring—and asks if any of them are family. They sputter out that of course they’re all family, they’re a family, let us see her, is she okay.

Puck clears his throat and raises his hand as he steps forward.

“She’s the mother of my child.”

The group goes quiet, and Puck feels so small in his suit.

The administrator eyes his mohawk, then his earnest and pleading face, and nods. “She’s in surgery. Someone will come get you if she makes it out. Go wait back there.”

_If._

* * *

They sit there, in that uncomfortably stuffy waiting room, silent and grieving until the door opens, and a beautiful blonde woman walks into the room.

Rachel’s heart races. She hears the pounding of her own blood.

But it’s not her. It’s not Quinn. It’s Judy Fabray, looking so small and broken and petrified. The older woman scans the room, takes in all the bewildered young faces waiting for news of her Quinnie, and whispers, “Hello.”

Rachel is standing and hugging her before the extra air from that greeting finishes leaving Judy’s lungs.

She’s not Quinn. She doesn’t fit like Quinn does, and she doesn’t smell like Quinn either. Her voice isn’t the same pitch as Quinn’s, not the right texture.

And they’d never even really met before today. Surely Quinn has never talked about her, least of all to her family. But this is the closest Rachel can get right now to Quinn, and so right now, she’ll take it.

After a moment of surprise, Judy returns the hug. They stand there holding each other, two people who had discovered later than they should have just how important Quinn was to them.

* * *

Santana pulls Judy aside, and it’s so reminiscent of all the times Santana and Quinn argue that it makes Rachel‘s gut twist.

Santana is furious, hissing words of _you’re too late, why are you even here, she was broken long before today_. Judy snaps right back at her with ice and regret thick in her voice: _I know. But we’re getting better._

They both keep their voices low, but everyone can feel the heat of the exchange, and Rachel isn’t really eavesdropping, she just prides herself on how well she can hear.

Eventually, Brittany inserts herself delicately between the two warring women. Her presence immediately eases some of the tension from Santana’s shoulders. She says to her, “Do you love Quinn perfectly?”

“What, I—“ Santana sputters before admitting softly, “No.”

And before Judy can feel any sense of self-righteousness, Brittany asks her the same question: “Do you? Perfectly?”

“No,” Judy says.

“But you do love her,” Brittany says to the both of them. It isn’t a question. It’s the truth. They both love Quinn in every immense, flawed, immensely flawed way.

Santana and Judy stare each other down, and the silence between them stretches.

“I’m glad my daughter has friends who love her in ways I never did,” Judy says at last, and Santana’s forgiving smile is there and gone in a flash.

Delicate. Fragile. Gone.

* * *

It’s hours before Finn stands up, walks over to Rachel, and says a few words to her that at 5pm would have mattered, but now at 8pm, nothing else matters to Rachel but Quinn.

He says, “We’re not gonna get married, are we?”

Rachel says nothing. Rachel doesn’t even look up.

Finn is the first to leave.

* * *

Three more hours pass, and some of the glee club agree that it’s 11pm, it’s late, and they need food and rest. They promise they’ll come back once Quinn wakes up.

No one says if. They can’t afford an if.

* * *

When Finn left, he’d taken his car with him, which left some people stranded without a ride. Mercedes makes a phone call, then offers them a ride home. Her love is quiet and persistent.

Before she leaves, she tells the room’s remaining occupants, “Tell her I was here. And tell her I was good to them.” She nods towards the receding flock of glee club members.

“We will,” Puck assures.

She closes the door, and then it’s just Puck, Santana, Brittany, Rachel, and Judy in an empty room filled with Quinn’s presence.

They say nothing. Nothing more needs to be said.

* * *

Midnight passes, and it occurs to Rachel that today is officially no longer the day of her wedding.

The air conditioning unit hums to life, and the stiflingly hot air churns to stiflingly cold air. It seems, Rachel thinks, that whatever the temperature of the air, it always carries with it that weight, that burden of disease and death.

Rachel wonders if the very molecules of oxygen know what kind of place this is.

She hears Santana murmur into Brittany’s shoulder in an otherwise dead-silent room, “Remind me why Berry’s here?”

“Because,” Brittany whispers back to her, “this is her place. Quinn is her place.”

And that must mean something to the two of them, because Rachel can feel Santana’s eyes on her, can feel the heat of her scrutiny, her examination.

Rachel looks up. Locks eyes with Santana. Doesn’t look away.

And that seems to satisfy Santana, seems to give an answer to whatever question she has, because she smiles a little and curls closer to Brittany.

Rachel watches them, so clearly in love, while they drift in and out of sleep. Rachel watches Puck’s leg bounce, as it has been for hours, because he’s trying to be brave in the face of fear and anxiety. She watches Puck and Judy huddled together, chatting softly as Judy flips through pictures on her phone. Puck gasps and flicks through his own photo reel.

They’re comparing baby pictures of Quinn and Beth.

There are tears in both their eyes, but they’re smiling and laughing and pointing.

Rachel feels the familiar pang of loneliness, of fifth-wheeling, of not belonging. She knows that she’s sitting in the room with Quinn’s best friends and family, and she feels the distance between herself and the two pairs of people with her.

But Santana had nodded, and Puck had let her get in the truck with them, and Rachel hasn’t left and won’t leave until Quinn is out of surgery.

And all of them are grieving. All of them are scared. All of them are exhausted and hungry and stressed.

All of them love Quinn Fabray in their own broken way.

* * *

It’s almost 1am when the doctor enters the room. She’s covered in blood. _Quinn’s blood_ , Rachel realizes, and the thought makes her stomach turn, makes bile collect in her throat.

Everyone’s eyes are trained on the doctor, everyone pleading, desperate, petrified.

“She’s alive,” the doctor says, and everyone breaks at once.

Santana and Judy in that earth-wrenching, can’t-put-back-together kind of love, the kind that Judy clearly passed on to Quinn.

Puck and Brittany, in that bravery-is-exhausting-and-I-am-finally-free-to-fall kind of love.

And Rachel, who hasn’t stopped crying in the past eight hours, finally cries tears of relief.

* * *

“She was touch-and-go for a long time. We lost her, actually. Twice. But she’s strong and brave. She’s young, and she’s stubborn. So, she’s all right, for now. We need to keep a close eye on her, and these next couple of days will be crucial to her health and recovery, but right now, she just needs some rest.”

All of them are speechless, or perhaps they have so many words that none can get out.

“Doctor?” Judy whispers eventually through her tears, through the waver in her voice. She clears her throat and tries again. “When can I see my daughter?”

The doctor’s smile is sweet, her eyes kind. “She needs rest, and you do too. She probably won’t wake up until tomorrow afternoon or so. Go home, rest, freshen up. As long as there are no complications, she’ll be here when you get back.” The doctor turns around and is gone.

Puck is beaming by now, and he realizes that maybe it’s too soon to be so hopeful, but Quinn is so strong and so _unreasonably_ stubborn that he knows she’ll be okay.

“You heard her,” he says to them. “Let’s go home. If I know anything about Quinn, I know she’d hate to smell all of us right now. All gross and sweaty.”

“I’m not leaving,” Rachel says.

It’s the first time she’s spoken since she’d pleaded with Puck to let her carpool with them. Her voice is weak and cracked. On a normal day she’d be worried about her singing abilities and vocal damage, but she doesn’t care, because Quinn is _alive_.

Quinn died _twice,_ and somehow she’s _alive._

“C’mon, Berry,” Santana says. “Q would flay me alive if she knew you weren’t taking care of yourself, and—”

“Oh, she told you that, huh?” Rachel snaps, and Santana physically recoils a little. Rachel watches Santana’s face contort, watches her wind up a cruel response, but Brittany’s fingers interlace with Santana’s.

“Yes,” Brittany says, and it’s so honest and earnest and simple that Rachel believes her, that maybe Quinn did threaten bodily harm on her behalf. “Well, maybe not in those exact words. But she does want you to be okay, and I think she’d want you to shower, because she likes how you smell.”

And that admission does so much for Rachel.

That Quinn notices how she smells. That Quinn likes how she smells. That Quinn likes how she smells enough to tell Brittany.

That knowledge floods her body, and heat rises in her face to color her cheeks, and she’s _smiling_ when she was, mere minutes ago, ready to refuse to smile for the rest of her days.

(Quinn was why she smiled most of the time anyway, and without her, what would be the point?)

“Gross,” Santana says, but it’s devoid of mockery. There’s a kindness in her eyes, an understanding that Rachel can’t fathom. “Cold shower, Berry. Get the hell out of your wedding dress before Q rips it off you. Back here tomorrow morning, sharp.”

(The image of Quinn ripping off her clothes flies through her mind. If she wasn’t blushing before, she’s surely scarlet now.)

Judy taps her softly on the shoulder, then, and says, “Miss Berry.”

“Mrs. Fabray,” Rachel responds, and a glimpse of pain flashes across the older woman’s face. It’s almost imperceptible, but Rachel has spent four years watching Quinn’s face, and she’s read the book by now on Fabray facial expressions.

She wrote the book, too.

“Ms.,” she corrects. “But please, call me Judy.”

“Apologies. Call me Rachel, then, Judy,” and the two shake hands as though they hadn’t spent the last eight hours waiting for news about the girl they both adored, as though Rachel hadn’t thrown her arms around the older women just to feel closer to Quinn.

“Rachel, would you like a ride home?” And Rachel looks around, looks at Puck escorting Santana and Brittany out the door. Puck turns to look back at Rachel, gives her a thumbs up, and mouths, _go with her._

So she does.

* * *

They step outside into the cool, clear night air and Rachel feels like she can finally breathe. She’s no longer sitting in that stifling waiting room, she can stretch her legs, and _Quinn is alive_.

Once they get in the car, Judy offers Rachel a water bottle she keeps tucked in the back seat. Rachel downs half of it at once. She hadn’t had any water in ages, even as her friends came and went from the waiting room to use the bathroom or rehydrate.

Rachel wouldn’t budge from her post.

“I hope you’re not going far out of your way to drive me home, Ms. Fa—Judy,” Rachel says once they’re buckled in and rolling slowly out of the hospital parking lot.

“Nonsense, you’re not far,” Judy answers smoothly. The quiet embraces both women until Judy finally takes a deep, shuddering breath. She says, “As lovely as Mr. Puckerman—oh, no, wait. Noah. No. Puck. As lovely as _Puck_ is, he’s not like my Quinnie. Talking to him, he gushes over Beth, you know, but the way he talks... Well, I can see why he and Quinnie never worked out. Quinn’s mind is too fast. He can’t keep up with her.”

Rachel says nothing.

“You can keep up with her, Rachel.”

Rachel again says nothing, because there’s something underneath Judy’s words that she’s not saying. She’s so much like Quinn, it aches.

She suspects that, like Quinn, Judy will find the words eventually.

Rachel’s gamble pays off when Judy confesses, “I asked to drive you home because Quinn never stopped talking about how you never stopped talking. And I’d like to get to know the girl Quinn always talks about.”

And Rachel understands. This conversation is to Judy what their hug was to Rachel: a way to be closer to Quinn.

So Rachel talks. Even though the night air is cold, and she’s still in that godforsaken wedding gown, Rachel feels warm with the knowledge that Quinn talked to her mother about her.

* * *

“I was supposed to get married last night,” Rachel says. “You probably guessed that from the dress.”

“I didn’t have to guess. Quinn’s been telling me,” Judy says. There’s mirth in her voice, teasing, like she knows something Rachel doesn’t.

But then, mothers always know.

“She told me not to,” Rachel starts, and stops, and starts again. “I asked her what she thought, and she told me not to. But I didn’t listen. I tried to do it anyway. And she...”

And unbidden, images of Quinn’s crash flood her mind. Quinn, crumpled in her car. Quinn, hand clutched around her cell phone. Quinn, dying on the operating table _twice_. Because of her. Her and her stupid wedding that Quinn didn’t even want to happen in the first place. The guilt chokes her, crushes her chest, and then Rachel thinks that _this is probably what Quinn felt when she…_

But Judy’s voice cuts mercifully through the haze of images. “You know, there were probably less dramatic ways Quinn could have come up with to stop the wedding.” She says it so matter-of-factly, as though Quinn had a multiple choice question on an exam and scribbled in the most ludicrous option.

Rachel laughs, really laughs, and it feels like she can breathe again. Judy smiles back at her.

“She couldn’t have just done the whole, ‘I object’ thing in the middle of the ceremony, like a normal person?” Rachel jokes, and laughing with Quinn’s mother feels so real and so honest and so free.

So alive.

* * *

“She’s stubborn, Quinn is. She was going to find a way to stop that wedding, even if—“

Rachel’s heart breaks at the thought of the end of Judy’s sentence. _Even if it killed her._

“Well.” Judy shakes the thought from her mind. “She’s stubborn. And anyway, she believes in you, you know. She’s told me about how you inspire her.”

“Me?” Rachel’s voice is small. “She’s the one who’s going to Yale.”

“And who do you think she did that for?” Judy’s tone is playful and joking, but whatever joke she has in mind, Rachel doesn’t get it. “She has something to prove, you know. To herself. To me and our family. To you.”

Rachel’s head is spinning. She sips at her water, because she doesn’t know what else to say, what else to do.

“You challenge her. You push her to be better. That’s what she’s told me. When she was with that Finn boy, she was prepared to settle in Ohio and become a real estate agent. She doesn’t want that to be your future.”

Rachel doesn’t either.

* * *

“Quinn said you belong on Broadway.”

“Quinn is biased,” Rachel answers quickly.

“My Quinn,” Judy says, “is rarely wrong. And she’s been through enough in life already. She’s been humbled, been brought to realism. She wouldn’t say things that were out of reach.”

Rachel can hear in her voice the confidence that Judy—that _Quinn_ —has for her. She realizes they’re almost at Rachel’s house, and though she’s exhausted and so looking forward to the comforts of her bed, a part of her wishes she could stay with Judy just a little longer.

Just to hear what else Quinn has told her mother about her.

“Quinn is certain you’re bound for great things,” Judy says. “And I’m certain Quinn is, too. That’s why she and Mr. Puckerman couldn’t work. He couldn’t keep up with her. He’s a good boy at heart, but Quinn is going to get out of here and do brilliant things, and Mr. Puckerman is content where he is. Now, from what I hear from Quinn about him, and from what Quinn has told me about _you_ , Mr. Hudson can’t keep up with you, either.”

Instinctively, Rachel opens her mouth to protest, to defend Finn’s honor, but no words come out. _Because she’s right._

“He’s a sweet boy, don’t get me wrong. But you need someone quick. Someone who can see the fire in you and match it. Someone who’s getting out of this town and going places. Someone you can keep up with, and someone who can keep up with you.”

Rachel sucks in a breath and remembers Judy’s words from earlier.

_You can keep up with her, Rachel._

Judy pulls into Rachel’s driveway. Turns off the car. Turns to Rachel.

“Take it from me, love. Don’t marry someone who can’t give you everything you want in life. Be with someone who can keep up.” There’s a smile on Judy’s lips, and it makes her think of Quinn, the way everything makes her think of Quinn.

Rachel swallows thickly and unbuckles her seatbelt. “Good night, Judy,” she says.

“Good night, Rachel. And thank you.”

Judy idles until Rachel opens the door and waves at her. Judy waves back. Judy drives away.


End file.
